Truth and Lies
by Best Damn Avocado
Summary: Natasha Romanoff meets Sherlock Holmes in the dungeons of a Serbian base and forges an unexpected bond.
1. Part I

**Author's Note:** A big thank you to Gracie Holmes, whose writing is a constant inspiration and who went over this for me, catching my mistakes. Thank you!

* * *

 _October, 2013. Serbian base. Exact location unknown._

He was having a nightmare.

His body curled in on itself and his hands closed in tight, scarred fists. He was sweating too, and his whole frame shook when he gasped for breath. Natasha closed her eyes, exhaling slowly. She shouldn't care, but she did. He was going to cut into his palms with those fingernails if he kept at it.

She glided over and peered at him through the iron bars. He didn't stir.

"Hey," she whispered, cautious not to draw the attention of their guards. "You need to wake up."

He winced, but didn't open his eyes or otherwise acknowledge her presence. Natasha cursed colorfully under her breath, turning her head to study her surroundings.

She didn't have much in her cell beyond the most basic of necessities, but there had to be something she could use. Her eyes landed on her sleeping pallet. She'd stolen a knife from one of the guards and hidden it inside for when she finally made her escape. It wasn't very long, but she could just about touch the tip of it to the sole of the man's feet if she tried.

 _Worth the risk?_ As if in reply, the man groaned low and quiet in his throat.

Natasha retrieved the blade, crouching gracefully on the floor once she'd made sure no one was looking. She snaked her arm between the bars and reached inside as far as she could, bars digging painfully into her shoulder. Her knife was still a quarter of an inch too short. She couldn't go much further if she wanted to avoid serious injury.

Cursing again, she tipped her head forward. Her forehead thudded against the bars. She was too tired and too sleep deprived to think of anything else.

"What are you doing?"

He spoke barely above a whisper. Natasha opened her eyes, drawing back her knife quick as a cat. He stared at her with impossibly blue eyes, sharp despite the drugs they'd surely given him to put him to sleep.

"You were having a nightmare. Thought you could use a wake up call."

He huffed, slowly propping himself on an elbow until he was almost sitting. "Risky."

"Maybe I'm just a charitable soul." Natasha moved away to hide the knife, returning quickly to her spot next to the iron bars. He'd moved closer, shirtless, scarred and dirty as he gripped the barrier between their cells. She sat in front of him with her legs crisscrossed and her hands on her knees, relaxed but unreadable.

She wasn't sure what he saw when he looked at her, but he _was_ looking at her now. She felt oddly exposed. His eyes strayed finally to the rest of her cell. "Who are you?"

"I could ask you the same question," she retorted.

"And why would I answer?"

"Because I did you a favor." Natasha flashed him a faint smile. She couldn't tell whether or not he'd caught it, they were quickly losing daylight.

He exhaled, sharp and tired, and she thought it might've been amusement. "Why did you?"

Natasha didn't miss that he'd sidestepped her question, but that was to be expected. She was in a Serbian prison with a knife hidden inside her pallet, and she was making no move to escape. She had a mission to complete first. Someone she needed to kill once she got the information she was here for.

He had no reason to trust her.

She shrugged a slim shoulder and stole a glance towards the corridor outside their cells. Still no guards. "Maybe I heard what you said to the guard yesterday when they brought you in—"

"Deductions," he said automatically.

She smiled to herself. "Maybe it made me like you." She paused. "Or maybe I was bored, and in the mood for conversation. Who knows?"

He was quiet a long moment, gripping the iron bars without looking away. She cast a sideways glance his way. "Doesn't say much about your sanity," he said at length.

"Well," she smiled again, just barely, "I'd never claim to be sane."

His lips lifted at the corner in a subtle smirk. "Sherlock Holmes," he said.

"Natasha Romanov."

"Pleasure."

"Likewise."

Heavy footfalls cut off the rest of their conversation. Natasha moved away from Sherlock towards the front of her cell to get a better look, body tense and ready for a fight.

"How many?" Sherlock had pushed himself up to his feet.

Natasha spared only a glance his way. "Six," she answered quickly.

"They're here for me."

"Yeah." Natasha kept her eyes on the six guards as they moved closer. Sherlock stretched his limbs in the cell beside her, like he was getting ready for something. She had a nasty suspicion she knew what it was, but she'd seen enough to know he had a job to do here too. "I'll see you later."

He winked, straightening his spine as the lock on his cell clanged open. "Don't wait up."

Natasha watched the guards drag him away and paced to the center of her cell. A beat later she sat down to wait, moving only to retrieve the slop they were feeding her when they pushed it through the slot of her cell door. Half her portion of water sloshed out of its tin with the force.

She didn't touch either. She'd been picking at her food since she'd arrived, taking only enough to keep her strength up.

 _Hunger sharpens the mind_ , they used to say in the Red Room.

Hours later, they finally dragged him was damp, bloody and barely conscious, blue eyes dazed and unfocused. She thought they must've hosed him down once they'd done their best to break him, and given him something to keep him from fighting.

She didn't move, waiting until the guards dropped him on his pallet and disappeared before she glided over to the barrier between their cells. He was closer now. Close enough that she could reach between the bars and touch him without problem.

She pushed her hand through, fingers sinking into dark, damp curls. Sherlock tensed beneath her touch. "Just me, your friendly neighbor," she assured him quietly.

Sherlock breathed out. "I'm fine."

"If you say so." Natasha couldn't feel any bumps on his head, and her fingers didn't come away bleeding when she pulled away to check. She relaxed and resumed running her fingers through his hair.

Several minutes went by before he spoke again. "What about you?"

"They have other ways of torturing me," she said impassively, promptly changing the subject. "I've got water if you need it."

"No," he said quickly. "No, it's… fine. This is fine." He breathed deeply, relaxing as he exhaled. "How soon before they come for you again?"

"Soon. A day or two, at most." Natasha shifted to make herself a little more comfortable while she continued her gentle ministrations. She didn't plan on coming back to her cell after that. Once she had what she needed, she was going back to the limited comforts of her safe house and leaving this hellhole well behind her.

Sherlock's next words were a little slurred, like he was losing consciousness. "I won't see you again, will I?"

Natasha bit her lip, but it didn't stop her smile. She rested her head against the bars and gave in to the sliver of warmth curling in the pit of her stomach. "Would you like to?"

"No," he said quietly, drowsily.

"Liar." Natasha shifted her head, peeking at him through the iron bars. His eyes were already closed, lashes casting shadows over his cheeks. She lowered her voice to a whisper. "Did I win you over with my excellent hair playing skills?"

His lips twitched very subtly. "No," he repeated.

"Your nose is really growing now, Pinocchio." Sherlock huffed and Natasha closed her eyes, focusing on the sounds and smells around her. "I'll find you," she promised.

Sherlock reached blindly, long fingers finding her thin cotton trousers through the bars. He clutched the fabric, whispering a shuddering reply. "Good," he said.


	2. Part II

_May 18th, 2014. London. 221B Baker Street._

Natasha liked his bedroom.

She hadn't known what to expect when she'd crawled in through his window only a few minutes before, but what met her when she clicked on his beside lamp immediately made sense. Sparse furnishings, soft white sheets and Mendeleev's Periodic Table tucked behind his bedroom door. She decided it suited him.

Breathing in the lingering scent of smoke, leather and something undeniably _him_ layered beneath, Natasha took a seat on his bed and smoothed her fingers over the wrinkled cover. She had a little time before he arrived from John's wedding.

Several months had gone by since they'd last seen each other in Serbia. Several months since Sherlock Holmes had taken root in her thoughts and refused to leave. Natasha liked it that way.

She'd escaped that Serbian base with a new scar between her fourth and fifth ribs on her left side, but she'd gotten the information she'd been after. Confirmation that a S.H.I.E.L.D. weapon codenamed _The Zodiac_ had been stolen from one of its storage facilities, and its last known location. She'd made quick work of loose ends shortly thereafter.

By the time she'd made her way back down to their previous holding cells to say goodbye, Sherlock had already disappeared. She'd been about to make a swift exit when her eyes caught on his sleeping pallet, shoved against the back wall of his cell. She'd slipped inside.

Carved into the wall, near the bottom where it joined with the floor, she'd found a code. She realized he must've stolen a knife for himself while he'd been here too, but couldn't pinpoint when. He was good. Really good. She memorized the message and slipped back out of the cell within seconds, saving the puzzle for when her life and mission weren't in danger.

Once she'd checked in with Fury and returned the missing weapon to its rightful place, she'd settled in with a glass of wine to review the code. It hadn't taken her long to figure out he'd used Pinocchio for his keyword. When she'd finally cracked it, she'd found herself smiling.

"You know, it's very difficult to tell what you're thinking," his deep voice cut into her thoughts.

Natasha's smile grew, even as she straightened to look him over. He leaned against the doorframe like he'd been studying her for a while, gloves held loosely in his elegant hands. When their eyes met, his lips turned up at the corner.

"Didn't know you were a mind reader," she quipped. "Consider me curious."

"I play a game with John," he explained, pushing himself upright. "Deduce what's on his mind based on where his eyes linger, what he's reading, his body language and the like. It's not very difficult and it has often proved insightful where our friendship is concerned." He hung his coat and scarf behind his door, tucking the gloves into a pocket.

"Does it bother you that you can't deduce what I'm thinking?" Natasha rose off the bed, reaching over to remove his tie once he'd granted her permission with a nod of his head.

"No, not at all. On the contrary, I find the challenge fascinating." Sherlock studied her with an intensity she remembered well from their encounter in Serbia. She'd thought about it often enough during their time apart, always craving the unique effect it had on her.

"I've deduced you like to dance," he added.

Natasha slowly slid the tie from his neck, never once looking away. "I do," she confirmed with a warm smile, despite the predatory gleam in her eyes, "with the right partner."

She offered him the tie and Sherlock took it from her hands, fingers just barely grazing her skin. "Is that an offer?"

"If you want it to be." Natasha pressed herself closer, gripping the lapels of his tuxedo jacket even as her gaze dropped briefly to his lips. "Would you like to dance with me, Sherlock Holmes?"

Sherlock tossed his tie in the general direction of the bed and wrapped an arm around her waist, gently sinking one of his hands in her glossy red waves. He bent his head low, and she could feel his lips brush against the shell of her ear. His breath hot on her skin.

"No," he said at length, voice low enough to send shivers down her spine.

She let go of his jacket to smooth her hands over his chest, slowly inching her way up to his shoulders. "Liar," she shot back.

His lips were on hers a moment later, soft and inquisitive and smoldering. A stark contrast to the cold walls of their cells all those months before, where they'd found a scrap of comfort in each other.

She wanted more of it. More of the man she'd glimpsed beneath that broken, bleeding skin, prodding his captors with cunning deductions one moment and reaching for her the next. More of the person she'd become in his presence. More of whatever this magnetic, indefinable pull was between them.

Something crashed to the floor, and she realized they'd moved closer to head of the bed. His lamp had somehow toppled to the floor. She wasn't sure why, but he didn't seem particularly interested in finding out and neither did she. She couldn't concentrate on anything other than his hands beneath her cashmere jumper anyway, and the way he shivered in her arms when she ran her fingers through his hair. Somewhere along the way he'd lost his jacket and the first three buttons of his shirt.

She tipped her head back when his lips found her neck. "You…" He breathed between kisses. "Have to tell me… if I'm doing this right."

Natasha half opened her eyes when the meaning behind his words finally registered. She pulled him closer. "You are," she assured him breathlessly, turning so she could push him down to sit on the bed and crawl on top. She met his eyes in the soft light coming from the window, chest rising and falling with quick breaths.

"I've got you," she promised, and she didn't know if it was because they'd already seen each other hurt and vulnerable, but there was no mistaking the trust in those dilated blue eyes. Natasha felt an insane, overwhelming urge to claim Sherlock as hers. "I promise," she vowed again, melting against him even as they resumed the urgent pace of a few seconds previous, tugging and pulling at each other's clothes. "I've got you."

When they eventually stilled in each other's arms, Natasha tucked herself close against Sherlock's side and hooked a possessive leg over the lower half of his body. He dragged a wrinkled sheet over their bodies and turned his head, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "I think we might've done that backwards," he spoke softly.

Natasha smiled to herself. "I think we might've done that perfectly, actually."

Sherlock's chest shook with his laugh, a low, quiet rumble. "I appreciate the feedback, but that's not what I meant."

"I know." Natasha pulled back just enough to study his face. "But to be fair, we started with dirty cells, torture and the threat of imminent death. I think it's safe to say this was never going to be normal or traditional." She paused very briefly, searching his features for doubt. "Should we talk about it?"

"I wouldn't know," Sherlock admitted, trailing a hand from her thigh to her waist. "This is more John's area than it is mine. I'd have to ask him"

Natasha pressed a soft kiss to his lips, lingering close when she broke away. "You do that and let me know," she said. "In the meantime, I vote we make our own rules for this thing, whatever it may be. I know your job is important to you as mine is to me, but I don't want this to be the last time we see each other." Her toned turned playful. "I _did_ go to all that trouble to find you."

"Mm, you did. Was it worth it?"

"Absolutely," she answered without hesitation.

He drew her in for another kiss, pushing her back on the bed until he was on top. "Okay," he answered against her lips. "I vote with you. We make our own rules for this, because I doubt social convention would apply to us anyway."

"Good, now that we've got that settled…" Natasha ran a hand down the length of his back. "How about another dance?"


End file.
